


Filly

by cincoflex



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Longhorns, Trans Female Character, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Nick Stokes finds someone a little different from the rest of the herd.





	Filly

**Author's Note:**

> This is a CSI story I wrote several years ago; I've always thought Nick needed someone special. Set post 'Ch-ch-changes' and 'Grave Danger'

Filly

Nick looked at the girl behind the bar, trying hard to think where he’d seen her before. Long and tall, with a figure that reminded him a little of Sara’s but with a few more curves . . . 

She caught his glance and her smile deepened a little; whoever the bartender was, she seemed to remember him. Nick stepped forward and smiled back.

“Three Beck’s, please.”

“Coming right up, honey,” she replied in a husky sweet voice. Nick leaned on the counter, SURE he’d heard that voice before. He lazily looked at the bartender’s back while she fished out his bottles from one of the little refrigerators under the central island. 

Unfamiliar as she was, she filled out a low-slung pair of jeans nicely, he admitted. When she’d turned around, cold bottles in hand, she caught his glance and laughed softly. “Lookin’s free, but these are two fifty each.”

Nick fished out his wallet and dropped a ten, flashing another smile at her. “Keep the change, Miss.”

“Thank you, cowboy,” she replied, scooping it up. Nick noticed her long slender arms, the wide leather band on her wrist; the branded logo on it made him laugh.

“Another Longhorn alumni! Sweet!”

“Class of eighty-nine,” the bartender admitted, “Although I haven’t been back since, I still support the home team.”

Nick looked up at her, and studied her features. She was thin-faced, and not particularly pretty, but her eyes were big and velvety brown, and her smile was amazingly warm. He cleared his throat.

“I know you hear this all the time, but I am pretty sure I’ve met you before.”

The bartender’s smile faltered a tiny bit, and she sighed. “Oh well, it was sweet while it lasted. Yeah, I remember you too, honey. You came in to the Cock Pit last year looking for Marlene.”

Nick stared for a second, feeling a quick flush over his face as recognition flooded through him: the bartender with the Lone Star tee-shirt. He blinked, and she pushed the three beers towards him, her smile slightly sad now. “Drink ‘em before they get warm.”

“Uh, right. Yeah, thanks—” he mumbled, feeling eight kinds of stupid. As he carried the beers back to the table and handed them to Warrick and Greg, he settled back down, turning his chair away from the bar. The noise level was soothing, and he twisted the cap off his beer, downing the first mouthful quickly.

“Saw you havin’ a little conversation there, Nick---” Greg smiled. Nick managed a grin back.

“She’s . . . a Texas Alum—you know how we Longhorns gotta stick together.”

“Riight. Good excuse,” Greg teased. Mention of the team let Warrick bring up the previous night’s football game and the conversation turned to sports; Nick contented himself to contributing periodically as he slowly shifted his chair back and let his attention drift back to the bar for the next forty minutes. He watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye, studying her long sweet lines, her quick grace in lining up glasses and mixing cocktails.

She wasn’t pretty. Not by conventional standards. Nick could see the broad shoulders, the slight bulge of Adam’s apple on her throat. Her hair was straight and cut in a lanky style; efficient for the job, and she had a bit of an overbite too.

Not his type by any means. Nick kept looking.

Hell of a bouncy chest though, high and nicely accentuated through her thin tee-shirt. Implants or not, her tits looked great, and jiggled in a way that kept catching his eye. She had a way of rolling her hips, too, that made him think of slow dancing and sweet hungry grinding in the dark. And that ass . . . there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with those peaches, no way, Jose. His hands could cup those pert cheeks and—

“I said NICK, what time is it?” Greg broke into his concentration. Startled, Nick glanced down at his watch and mumbled “Two twenty."

“Thank you. Nice to know you’re paying attention to the group,” Greg acidly commented, but his words were softened by the twinkle in his eyes. Warrick laughed, and set his bottle down, then gave a deep sigh.

“Yeah, well fun as this little get together is, I gotta get home. Tina and I have a few projects to get to,” he lasciviously intoned, making it clear they weren’t hanging drapes or painting the garage. Nick laughed, and Greg smirked.

“So the marriage thing’s working out for you man?” Greg demanded. Warrick’s smile widened for a moment. Nick looked back at the bartender.

“It works,” Warrick replied. “And that’s all YOU need to hear about it.” He rose from the table and Greg did too, stretching a little and giving a discouraged sigh.

“Fine—I guess I’ll just mosey on too then. Coming, Nick?”

He shook his head. “Nah,” came his mumble. “I’ll see you guys on Monday.”

“Okay, take care,” Warrick tossed over his shoulder. Greg gave a wave and followed him out. Nick watched them go, and turned his attention back to the table, aimlessly playing with the bottle caps for a few moments; stacking them, setting them in patterns on the tabletop. He wondered why he was so restless, so unsettled.

_So . . . horny,_ Nick admitted to himself with a mingled sense of shame and annoyance.

With a sigh he began to finish off his beer and think over his options for the night. None of them seemed too promising since the few women here were all in the company of other men. Nick glanced again towards the bartender as the fleeting consideration crossed his mind once more.

She looked up right then, as if alerted to his interest, and for a moment they locked gazes across the room, the tug of attraction as recognizable as a whistle, pulling at both ends of the stare. Finally the bartender looked away, her attention coming back to the patron waving a few bills in her direction. 

Nick drew in a breath. He felt a sense of tingle across his skin, arousing and a little frightening—the carryover of guilt and thrill from childhood, when you nearly got caught doing something or seeing something adult. Carefully, he shifted in his chair, wondering if she’d felt it as well. Probably not, he argued with himself, since she’s not my type.

Out of the corner of his eye he studied her again, watching carefully this time, looking more critically. More objectively.

So she was tall. Not something he’d ever had a problem with in terms of women. She had an easy graceful way of moving, and her smiles were real. He even gave her credit for a great education and school loyalty as well. And still, the nagging truth bothered him.

_She used to be a guy._ Nick wrestled with the idea. Somewhere down the line she CHOSE to change.

The transgender case had been a hard one to work; no doubt about it. The crimes committed against the victims had been horrific and grotesque, and in the end Nick had found himself feeling profoundly sorry for them, unlike his gut response to Bruce. 

Not that sex is ever an easy issue for anybody, Nick admitted to himself. _Everyone’s got a little bit of a dark side to them._ For a moment he thought about his friends, trying to picture their own little sexual vices. _Greg’s probably into restraints, and I’m pretty sure Catherine’s got plenty of personal toys._

He wasn’t sure he wanted to consider Grissom’s sex life, but a small corner of his mouth quirked up in self-acknowledgment that his boss did indeed HAVE one. _They all do, even if they don’t talk about them much,_ Nick sighed inwardly. _And then there’s me—alone again, naturally._ He tried not to feel sorry for himself; he’d survived a hell of a lot this last year, more than most men, but the loneliness lingered. Carefully Nick began to rise out of his chair when he heard the crash.

A cluster of patrons did too, and craned over the bar; Nick hurried over and caught sight of someone on the floor behind it. The bartender lay in a growing puddle of blood, a steel moneybox on the floor within fingertip reach. Nick pressed his palms to the bar and vaulted over, bending down to look at the woman while calmly calling up, “Hey, somebody get me some water—”

She was coming to, but the gash along the top of her head continued to bleed; a heavy woman with long Rasta braids came up along behind the bar, her low voice rumbling angrily. “Damn it, Starr honey, you okay? Anybody see what happened?”

“She was making change,” A patron volunteered shamefacedly. “All I had was a hundred, so she was pulling down that box you have up overhead on the shelf.”

“She slipped,” someone else announced. “The box hit her in the head. Stupid place to keep it.”

Nick had a wet napkin pressed to the wound; already the bartender’s eyes were open, and pain-filled. She blinked a little, and put a hand down to push herself to a sitting position.

“Oh damn that hurts,” she moaned “Ow, ow, ow--”

“Yeah it’s going to for a while,” Nick replied, applying pressure to the wound. The Rasta woman leaned over and watched for a few seconds then sighed.

“Starr honey, you sit tight; I’ll call an ambulance . . .”

“No! Mina, it’s not THAT bad!” the bartender argued. Nick looked into her eyes carefully and shook his head.

“’Fraid it is,” he muttered, “I know head wounds bleed a lot but you’re probably going to need at least two stitches. Look, let me take you to the Emergency room—that way you won’t need to call an ambulance, but you’ll get treated quicker, okay?” Seeing the woman’s doubt he, added in a lower voice, “We Longhorns gotta stick together, you know?”

“You think I’m gonna let a complete strange take MY Starr—” Mina began in a slightly angry tone, but the bartender broke in, smiling with a wince to it.

“It’s okay Mina, he’s with the Crime Lab—he’s a cop. Sort of,” she amended. Nick fished out his wallet and flashed his ID; to her credit, Mina took her time studying it, then handed it back reluctantly. Nick fished out one of his business cards and gave it to her.

“My supervisor’s number is on it too.”

“Starr?” Mina asked softly, questioningly. Most of the patrons had gone back to drinking or talking, and only the three of them were left behind the counter. Starr slowly began to get up; Nick helped her, gripping her forearm to stabilize her. She smelled nice; some sort of vanilla perfume.

“It’s okay. If Mr. Stokes is willing to drive me,” she muttered weakly. “Can you close up alone?”

“Yep,” Mina replied gently. “Okay then, baby. You CALL me once you get there, you hear? And don’t worry about the schedule for tomorrow. I’ll get Charlie to cover for you.” She shot Nick a serious look and he nodded back.

*** *** ***

Nick waited. In the harsh light of the curtained bay everything looked a little bleached out, including the figure sitting on the exam table. He carefully pulled the wad of napkin away, pleased to see the cut already beginning to clot a bit.

“They might have to cut a little of your hair,” he warned. Starr gave a resigned sigh. Nick noted she had little pearl earrings.

“I was thinking of cutting it anyway.”

“Nah, I don’t think you should—it kinda frames your face,” he commented. For a second Starr blinked, then a slow smile crossed her face and she let her gaze skirt away as she cleared her throat.

“That sounded a little bit flirty, Mr. Stokes.”

Nick blushed, aware that she was right, but before he could speak the curtain whooshed back and a slightly older man with green horn rims and a thick nose looked in on them.

“Miss Jankowitz? I’m Doctor Graff, here to take a look at your laceration.” his voice held a soft hint of flat Midwestern tones, a broad flattening of his As. He moved over, peeled away the napkin and gave a little nod. “Oh my my, yes, that’s a nasty one. What happened?”

“A money box fell on my head.”

“Pennies from Heaven,” the doctor replied, earning a groan from both Starr and Nick. He chuckled as he pulled over the suture kit. “Now now—if you know how bad that was, I don’t think your concussion can be too serious. Let’s check your eyes . . . .”

A quick flashlight flick into each; Nick felt Starr flinch a little; without thinking about it he took her hand. It was slender and very cool in his, and the look she shot him out of the corner of her eye was grateful. Nick smiled back uncertainly while the doctor tut tutted a bit.

“Okay, a mild concussion. You’ll have a headache for while. You’ll need a couple of stitches too, I’m afraid.”

“Okay,” Starr agreed in a very small voice, and Nick gave in to the urge to squeeze the hand in his, very gently.

*** *** ***

Her apartment was a duplex off the end of a loop, an odd little unit standing all alone by a water treatment reservoir and right on the edge of the desert. Nick parked and came around to help her out; Starr shot him a gentle smirk.

“God you ARE Texan down to the boots, aren’t you?”

“Come on—you know Grandma training goes to the bone,” he commented with a flash of a grin; Starr laughed softly, rising up to stand. At full height she rose over him by two inches, but watching her stretch didn’t bother Nick. Not in the least when there was so much to look at. He fished in his pocket for his cell phone.

“I think you owe your boss a call.”

“Yeah,” Starr agree, taking the little phone from him as they walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Nick noted the floodlight on the corner of the garage flick on as they tripped the motion detector and inwardly he approved. On the front door was a huge wreath of dried chili peppers woven through cornhusks, and the sight of it touched him a little with a pang of homesickness. Starr dug for her keys in her purse, pulling them out as she brought the phone to her ear.

“Mina? Yeah, I’m home . . . Three stitches . . . . yes, he was a perfect gentleman . . . . Mina!” came the tantalizing bits of conversation as Starr unlocked the door and winked at Nick. He followed her inside as she flicked on lights and walked through the apartment. Brick tile floors, adobe walls and woven baskets decorated the place. Nick eyed the sunken living room and grinned at the cowhide pattern sofas. The wide screen TV stopped him in his tracks and he sighed with envy. Starr smirked a bit, covering the mouthpiece of the phone as she whispered, 

“Channel 56—I think arena football’s on,” then she turned back to her conversation. Nick found the remote on the little end table and clicked the screen on, then sat on the sofa, lost in the joys of the Dallas Desperados and Las Vegas Gladiators in a close third quarter grudge match. After a few minutes Starr handed him a bowl of corn chips and he gave her a sheepish nod as she perched on the arm of the sofa.

“My money’s on the Gladiators—former soccer players—speed and stamina,” she confided confidently.

“Yeah, but they’re on their second string quarterback—Menendez got carried off second quarter.”

“What? No way!” Starr blurted, staring at the screen. “Did they say what for?”

“Something about a late hit. Mighta dislocated his shoulder,” Nick supplied. “Dallas’s offence has been riding a hard blitz game.”

“Damned rednecks,” Star grumbled without malice. “Good thing I didn’t bet with Wally tonight. He’ll probably be smirking about it tomorrow, the rat.”

They watched in silence a few moments longer, and Nick crunched his way though most of the bowl of chips before guiltily checking his watch. “Oh man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to impose.”

Starr shook her head. She was still perched on the sofa arm, slouching easily, her eyes on the screen. “You’re not. If it hadn’t been for your good deed I’d be trying to explain to my medical insurance why I needed an ambulance for three stitches.” She turned to flash him a shy smile. “Really Nick, that was amazingly nice of you and I appreciate it.”

Nick felt himself smiling back. From his position on the sofa he had a nice view of her long limbs, and the halo of the lamp was bright enough to show the shadow of her nipples through her thin tee-shirt. He looked away, surprised and a little annoyed at how much that sight affected him.

“No big deal—Longhorns stick together, right?”

“Right,” Starr admitted with a low laugh. “Listen, you come back to Mina’s and you’ll have a night of beers on the house, guaranteed, okay?” 

“Sounds good. Guess I should be going . . . .”

Nick rose up off the sofa and walked to the door, taking in the Southwest décor once more with a little pang. Starr followed him to the front door and lingered there, brushing her hair back from her eyes and not meeting his gaze. She awkwardly patted his shoulder. “Ah, thanks. You didn’t have to help and you did anyway. That’s rare.”

Nick reached for her hand and gave a quick squeeze. “I wanted to, Starr. You take care of those stitches and I’ll see you around the bar sometimes, okay?”

“Okay,” Starr agreed. She stood at the doorway, a long coltish figure in bare feet and low jeans and watched him climb into his car, until he drove out of sight. When he had, she gave a low, discouraged sigh and turned back into her duplex. “Sure honey. Yeah, you’ll be back when the devil needs ice skates.”

*** *** ***

Nick missed it by six that evening. After turning his apartment inside out, the realization dawned as he pulled on his jacket. With a glance at his watch he figured he had enough time to stop by and get the cell phone back before work, so he took off for the little duplex in the shadow of the reservoir. The problem was that no one answered his knocks or the doorbell.

As he began to walk away in discouragement he noticed a thin old man watering the lawn next door. Nick stopped and looked at him slightly alarmed; the man wore a Hawaiian print shirt in a shade of purple so loud it was almost violent, with big green hibiscus flowers blooming like alien spores on it. Added to that he wore plaid Bermuda shorts in black and yellow, with red high top sneakers. He was bald on top, with a fringe of white hair around his head, and under his beaky nose he had a thick mustache to match. Nick cleared his throat. The old man glanced over at him and turned back to the lawn.

“Excuse me, but have you seen Starr?”

“Yes,” the old man replied in a voice so low it rivaled a foghorn. The sound, deep and rich seemed to rise up from the high-tops, and Nick grinned a little, but the man said nothing more. He tried again.

“Have you seen her today?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Nick checked his watch. “All right, do you know where she is right now?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please TELL me?”

“I could,” The old man agreed in his amazingly deep croak. Silence again, while Nick fought the urge to yell. Instead he took a deep breath and tried once more.

“Can you tell me where I can find her right now?”

“If you ask me, yes.”

“I DID ask you!” came the frustrated reply. The old man shook his head and turned the hose off, then looked at Nick sharply.

“You did NOT, young feller. You asked if I HAD seen her and if I COULD tell you, which isn’t the same as asking if I WOULD tell you. Semantics, yes, but important in the nature of communication, eh? “

“All right then sir,” Nick mentally counted to ten as he inwardly filed Starr’s neighbor under ‘N for nutcase’. “Where is Starr Jankowitz?”

“Las Vegas Nevada,” came the dry reply. “Somewhere within a thirty mile radius of our current position. Given her habitual schedule I daresay she’s either en route to Tonsessi’s Art Shop on the corner of 8th and Sunset, or shopping for groceries at Corti Brothers on Mayfaire and Route Eight.”

Nick concentrated hard for a moment longer, debating between his options at this news. The old man broke into his musings before he could reach a decision.

“You the buckaroo who brought her home from the hospital last night?”

“Yes sir,” Nick admitted, trying to ease away towards his car. The old man eyed him sharply, and gave a nod.

“What did you leave behind?” 

“My cell phone,” This time Nick’s tone held an unspoken question in it, and the old man gave a low thunder rumble of a chuckle.

“Considering your state of agitation I logically assumed it was something like that. So why didn’t you call yourself?” The man demanded. Nick blinked a bit, realizing exactly how practical the suggestion was and wondering how he’d missed it. The old man shook his head and took a few seconds to begin coiling the hose in slow, arthritic gestures. “Never mind. Nobody ever thinks of calling their own numbers. What’s your name?”

“Nick Stokes,” Nick replied automatically, his manners kicking in. The old man held out his hand and Nick carefully shook it, surprised at how strong his grip was.

“Wallace Ditmeyer, retired. Starr’s my tenant, and neighbor.”

“You’re the one she had a bet with?” he blurted, remembering Starr’s comment. Wally nodded sagely, a hint of a smile under his mustache.

“That gal never learns. She may love sports, but she’s no damn gambler, that’s for sure. I warned her Dallas was out for blood but did she listen? Now she owes me enchiladas that I intend to collect in full.”

Nick grinned and Wally grinned back as he toyed with the hose for a moment longer. He looked at Nick once more, seeming to size him up. “Does Starr HAVE your number?”

“Nnnnno, I don’t think she does,” Nick admitted with a hint of frustration. Wally rolled his eyes and motioned to the apartment on the other side of the duplex.

“Then I think you ought to give her a call and arrange to meet up with her somewhere. Fair enough?”

Nick nodded, realizing the suggestion made more sense than chasing after Ms Jankowitz all over Las Vegas. He followed Wally into his duplex as the old man waved to a rotary wall phone in the kitchen. Nick blinked at it for a moment, trying to remember how to use one, then carefully picked up the receiver and dialed. He looked around the sparse kitchen as he listened to the ringing of his own cell phone, and it dawned on him that Wally Ditmeyer was a man of dated décor.

Nothing in the entire kitchen looked newer than about nineteen sixty-seven. Nothing. Nick felt as if he’d walked onto the set of some black and white sitcom—from the rounded edged refrigerator with the car door handle to the Texaco clock over the stove to the red and white checked curtains at the sink window—all of it clean, but out of date. Wally was out of sight.

“Hello?” came the slightly wary voice at the other end of the line. Nick relaxed a bit.

“Hey Starr—still have my phone, huh?” he teased, leaning against the wall as he spoke. A soft laugh answered him.

“Yep. Spotted it on the kitchen counter when I got up. I wasn’t sure whether to leave it at home or take it to the bar on the off chance you’d go there to get it.”

“Smart thinking. I’m at your neighbor’s house now.”

“Wally,” came the affectionate sigh. “So—what’s best for you?”

“Well,” Nick confessed, “I’m running late as it is, but I don’t want you to wait up or anything. Are you close to the Strip?”

“Within a mile—why?” Starr replied absently. In the background Nick heard a cash register chiming.

“I can give you directions to the crime lab and meet up with you there—if that doesn’t bother you.”

“No bother,” Starr replied quickly. Nick liked the sound of her voice over the line, husky and low, and for a moment he smiled into the receiver. Finally he spoke again, laying out the directions clearly.

*** *** ***

He walked in, looking around and feeling a growing disappointment; Starr wasn’t in the reception area. He asked at the counter, expecting a headshake, but Nora, the swing shift receptionist nodded.

“Oh yes, she’s here—she had a pass for the morgue so she’s probably back there. Pretty gal, Nicholas!”

“Thanks,” Nick muttered, feeling a flush on his face. He walked determinedly down the long glass halls towards the morgue wondering about Starr’s pass. She didn’t look like a cadet, and hadn’t mentioned it—he passed Sara and Catherine, waving at them both through the DNA lab wall, and continued on.

Pushing carefully at the double doors, Nick looked in to see Doc Robbins and David both looking over Starr’s shoulders as she sat at the coroner’s desk and sketched something on what looked like the back of a medical sketch sheet.

“Part of it is knowing how many layers down the client wants, and what they’re trying to feature. Venial work is different from neuron or muscular emphasis . . .” Starr murmured in her twang. She had a fistful of pencils and pens, and switched her tool twice as Nick approached.

“Oh hey Starr . . . I was expecting to see you out front,” he murmured, trying not to sound negative. She looked up and flashed him a brilliant smile, those big eyes brown and soft.

“Sorry, sorry—I meant to stay out front, but I’ve never used my Association pass before and thought I’d be able to take a peek in and be back before you arrived.”

“She’s good,” David gravely commented, pushing his glasses up and leaning down to look at the artwork. Nick realized what the subject was and blinked a little. A severed hand. He looked at the kidney pan on the coroner’s desk and realized Starr was drawing from a live model. Or in this case, a dead one.

“You’re an artist?”

“She’s a medical illustrator, Nick. And a pretty good one, considering she’s using just Xerox paper, Sharpie markers and Ticonderoga pencils as her medium, “ Doc Robbins pointed out. “I’m impressed.”

“Me too—all I can draw are stick people. Ugly stick people,” David admitted mournfully. Nick flashed him a grin as Starr clucked a bit.

“Oh come on—everyone was an absolute beginner at everything at some point, Mr. Phillips.”

“David,” he offered shyly. Nick patted his shoulder, a little harder than usual.

“Super Dave. So you draw body parts?”

“I draw body parts. Whole bodies, organs, limbs—whatever the client wants or needs. It’s good work, but not always steady.”

“Hence the bar gig,” Nick commented, suddenly understanding things. Starr nodded, and as she did so the little bandage at her temple came into view. He stepped closer, and looked at it while Doc Robbins and David exchanged an amused glance behind his back. “Head looks better.”

“Doesn’t feel it yet,” she mournfully complained. “I want it to clear by eight tonight so I can watch Argentina wipe out Germany in the semi-finals.”

“Soccer?” Nick smiled. Starr nodded as she added a last touch to the drawing.

“Yep. No bets this time, but the goalie for Argentina is muy guapo, and between his moves and my salsa I’ll be sitting pretty.”

“Argentina is favored by three goals,” David agreed, earning glances from both Nick and Starr. Robbins discreetly picked up the basin with the hand and carried it off.

“I didn’t know you were a soccer fan,” Nick murmured. David gave a shrug.

“Not everyone’s cut out for football.”

“Good point,” Starr agreed, getting to her feet. She fished in the pocket of her denim jacket and pulled out the small silver cell phone, “And I think this is YOURS,” she handed it to Nick.

He took it from her, shoving it deep in his front right pocket. “Thank you. Listen, you want some coffee or something?” It came out awkwardly; out of the corner of his eye Nick saw David give a fractional wince and turn away, but Starr smiled, velvety eyes soft as she nodded.

*** *** ***

Argentina played hard, but in the end, Germany managed a last minute penalty kick that gave them one goal up, and the game ended with their victory. Nick enjoyed it more than he thought he would; soccer normally wasn’t his thing, but Starr had argued the game’s finer points of appeal and in the end he’d allowed himself to be invited over to watch for himself. 

It hadn’t taken a lot to persuade him, either. Afterwards he’d helped Starr clean up the snack dishes, and they’d talked for a while before he’d left, taking a warm sense of camaraderie. That feeling grew over the next two months. Nick found comfort in the constancy of sports and the growing familiarity of Starr’s sofa. He’d taken to dropping by a few nights a week to watch whatever offerings they could both agree on, and little by little what had begun as a common bond had shifted into an easy friendship, albeit one that still left Nick a little troubled at times. 

After a few weeks, Nick told Starr about his ordeal.

He hadn’t meant to, but the latest case he was working on brought back memories, and three days running Nick had woken up stifling screams into his pillow, his body covered in cold sweat. The smell of his fear, that acrid bite of bile and salt forced him to the shower each time, and finally Nick drove himself to Starr’s, ringing her doorbell at nine on a Thursday morning, half hoping she’d be at work.

She wasn’t. Starr answered the door with a paintbrush crosswise in her mouth. She wore tiny denim shorts and a long-sleeved green tee shirt. Her big brown eyes widened at seeing him, and her door opened wider. Carefully she pulled her brush out.

“Honey, you look godawful,” she murmured gently. Nick gave her a sheepish grin, but didn’t answer for a moment. Starr motioned for him to come in, and the minute he did, a little of the tension in his chest loosened.

“I’m sorry about barging on by, but I’m not . . . .” Nick gulped a little, “Not sleepin’ too good at the moment and I could sure use a distraction.”

“Bowling, talk shows or reruns,” Starr replied with a smile, waving towards the sunken living room. Nick ducked his head and brushed by her; the unexpected contact startled him, and he faltered a bit before increasing his speed and making his way to his spot on the sofa. For a moment he sighed, then noticed the art pad on the side table as he fished for the remote.

“Oh hey I’m sorry—did you have work to do?”

“Preliminary sketches. I could use a foot though,” Starr commented, leaning over the back of the sofa and eyeing Nick’s boots. He followed her glance and for a moment his dimples deepened.

“A foot? You have to be kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Starr giggled. “I may have a bid in for fungal powder, and if they like my sketches I could get the job. Don’t you want your toes to be the spokes-tootsies for Itch Be Gone?”

Nick’s expression said it all; Starr laughed out loud, dropping her brush as she did so and she bent to retrieve it, shooting him an affectionate look “Oh come on, Nick—nobody will ever know it’s your foot but me, okay? I can’t draw my own—the angle’s all wrong, and Wally’s is too old. Please?” she pleaded.

That did it, and with reluctance, Nick slowly toed off his boots and socks. Starr motioned for him to prop them up on the coffee table and scurried to get her sketchpad. Settling gracefully on the carpet, she began to draw as Nick picked up the remote and surfed the channels. He turned the volume lower, and sighed; Starr didn’t look up, but her husky whisper came out. “Wanna talk about it?”

Nick licked his dry lips and closed his eyes. “About seven months ago . . . I was sort of kidnapped. A psycho who was getting revenge for his daughter’s conviction buried me in a box.”

“God! That was on the news—that was you?” Starr breathed softly. She didn’t move, sensing the delicacy of the moment. It had taken a lot for Nick to bring it up, that was clear, and she didn’t want to risk him clamming up before he’d said what he wanted to say. He nodded slowly, eyes locked on the life insurance commercial on the screen.

“Yeah. It was a pretty bad time for me. I got myself some therapy, and most of the time I’m good, but I can’t . . . .” Nick hesitated, swallowing hard. “I can’t control my dreams, you know? When I’m awake I have ways to cope, people to talk to, but if something gets to me and sleep on it, I have nightmares.”

Starr paused, and slowly reached out her hand, touching Nick’s bare ankle. She gave it a reassuring squeeze, and then risked a look up at his face. Nick’s expression was scrunched up and he blinked. “So we’ve been on this case with a lot of evidence buried in a back yard, and every time I see a spade full of dirt scooped up, hear the sound of it clumped onto the ground . . . .”

“ . . . It brings memories back, a little bit,” Starr finished gently. Grateful that she understood, Nick nodded very slowly. They didn’t speak for a while, and Starr continued to sketch as Nick relaxed again. He’d settled on a sports recapping station, and as the scores from dozens of games were discussed, he gently fell asleep. Starr waited until the sound of his soft breathing evened out, and then she set her pad down.

“God you poor man,” she sighed to herself. The story had been covered in the media, the horrific details memorable to her even now, and Starr felt her initial horror morph into something deeper at the sight of the slumbering man on her sofa.

Bad enough that evil like that happened in this world, but when it happened to people she knew-- Rising to her feet, Starr moved to her bedroom and returned with a blanket, carefully dropping it on Nick, who didn’t stir, even when she tucked it in around him. She carefully moved to the other end, her usual spot on the sofa and leaned back, relaxing a bit now that Nick was sleeping. She kept sketching. Gradually though, the warmth of the afternoon and the drone of the TV proved hard to overcome, and Starr herself dropped off to sleep.

*** *** ***

Nick woke up with a start, feeling rested but slightly squashy. It took less than a second to recognize Starr’s living room, but he didn’t remember ever seeing it from this position. He shifted a little, and as he did the sudden surge of comprehension made him stare down at the shoulder pressing into his chest. Nick tensed, but only for a moment because too much of it felt so good and warm. He was half covered with a blanket and half-covered with sleeping Starr, their bodies cuddled together on the sofa. She was slumped against him, limp and heavy in just the right way to make Nick flex a little. He closed his eyes, giving in to the animal pleasure of being held.

It had been a long time. He’d broken up with Wendy before the kidnapping, and afterwards he’d dated a few times, but . . . it wasn’t the same. Nick found himself wondering if any woman would ever understand what he’d been through, or would be able to put up with some of his defenses now. The therapist kept telling him that things would get better in time, but Nick wasn’t sure everything would ever be the same.

Like this, here and now. He should be upset about being used as a pillow, but somehow it felt pretty good. Starr wasn’t heavy at all, and her hair smelled nice; sort of peachy-scented. Nick shifted a tiny bit, and all of a sudden felt the warm heft of breast against his chest.

THAT registered all the way through him in a hot thrum of desire. Desperate to snuff it, Nick shifted a bit more, only managing to bring more of that rounded swell against himself. Starr’s tee shirt was thin, and Nick swallowed hard, loving the press of it even as he tried not to stare. Damn that can’t be silicone, he argued with himself, feeling a little lightheaded now. Too yielding, too heavy--  
And just like that Starr murmured in her sleep, rolling away from him and slowly waking up as well. The thick dark lashes of her eyes opened, and she stared muzzily at him for a moment before blushing and smiling at the same time.

“Oh geez, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sprawl all over you!” she apologized, pushing up and away from Nick with the haste of embarrassment. He reluctantly let her go, missing the warmth already as he gave a small grin.

“No problem. Can’t say I minded at all.”

“Riiiight,” she scoffed, but the pink flush across her face gave away her amusement. She rose off the sofa and stretched; Nick bit back another throb of interest when Starr’s tee shirt rose up, flashing a section of smooth muscled stomach. She tugged it down and gave a little yelp while Nick sat up, running a hand over his face. “Oh I’m going to be late!”

“Work?” Nick asked, feeling a little guilty. Starr shook her head and pointed a finger at him as she strode around the sofa.

“No, and you should stay right there. Wally was coming over to watch the Avengers and you can keep him company. Maybe you can get another nap in if you haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve got beer, chips and dip all stocked up.”

“Don’t have to twist my arm,” Nick agreed, grin flashing, “But you?”

Starr flashed him a guilty smile. “I have a date.” She slipped off into the hallway towards the rest of the apartment leaving Nick a little thunderstruck by that idea.

A date? Nick blinked, feeling a spark of something hot and unreasonable in his chest He glared in the direction of the hallway where Starr had disappeared, a sense of concern rising in him. Yeah, concern—that was it. He raised his voice. “A date? Like as in coffee with somebody?”

From the other room came the sound of the closet opening and closing, and then Starr’s distracted voice. “It’s dinner--we’re going to Waffle World when he gets off of his shift. Damn it, I can’t find my green shoes. Nick, are my green shoes under the coffee table?”

Nick glanced down, his thoughts still tumbling over each other. He picked up the dressy sandals and let his exasperation tinge his reply. “Tell me you didn’t just say Waffle World. Come on, Starr—what kind of date is THAT? It’s like going out to Denny’s for crying out loud! People don’t do dates at Waffle World!”

“Big Mike does. He loves waffles,” came the calm response. “Shoes?”

“They’re here,” Nick replied dourly, “Big Mike?”

“No, they’re for me,” Starr teased, coming back into the room. She’d changed out of her shorts into a tiny denim skirt and added a few chunky wooden bangle bracelets to each slender wrist. As she reached for the shoes in Nick’s hands he caught a faint whiff of perfume.

“Big Mike?” he repeated, stubbornly, looking up at her from the sofa. Starr finally registered his expression, puzzled.

“Big Mike. He used to date Mercedes a while back but they broke up when she moved to L.A. I ran into him when I was getting the oil changed in my car, and one thing led to another, so we’re going out.”

Nick took in the sight of Starr slinking into her sandals, flashing a sweet length of leg at him while she chattered on. He gritted his teeth a bit and looked away, but it was difficult. “So you’re dating some guy you sort of know that you met up with at a Quickie Lube. Sounds real nice.” His tone dripped sarcasm. Starr rolled her eyes and puffed her cheeks out as she worked her foot in her shoe.

“Oh lighten up, Nick. We’re going out for waffles, not driving through the Chapel ‘O Love.”

There was no reply to that; Nick had a bizarre vision of Starr and some hulking Pro Wrestler in a tiny VW bedecked with ribbons pulling up to the speaker box and reciting vows. Before he could say a word a knock came at the door, and Starr went to open it. “Hey Wally.”

“Starr. Brought some paella and corn dogs.”

“Oh hey, that’s um, very thoughtful,” she replied and Nick could hear a suppressed giggle in her voice. Wally walked by, giving him a nod as he turned towards the kitchen. Starr came back to the living room and gave Nick a small shrug. “So, you two are set, and I should be back pretty soon. Just don’t drink ALL the beers, okay?”

“Waffle World,” Nick shook his head morosely, watching her sail out the door.

*** *** ***

Nick tried to concentrate on the show, which was sort of cool in an abstract, old-fashioned way. It wasn’t the Avengers he was expecting, that was for sure. The main guy was cool and reminded him a little bit of Grissom, and as for the woman—she had some sweet moves, and her outfit looked a little like Uma Thurman’s in Kill Bill. But even with the distraction, Nick still felt restless. Next to him, perched on the edge of the sofa, Wally gave a sigh.

“Geez, calm down, Bevo. She’ll be back soon.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Starr’s a good girl—if she actually liked this Big Mike guy she wouldn’t have asked you to stick around here,” Wally muttered, reaching for another corn dog and dipping it into mustard. Nick pondered on that a moment, feeling a little better.

“Really?”

“Really. She wanted a reason to be able to keep it short, so buck up and pass me another beer.” Nick did, hesitating for a moment, the questions on the tip of his tongue. Wally didn’t even look up as he took the cold bottle and twisted the cap off of it. “I’ve known Starr for six years, and yes I know she used to be a man. Key point in that last sentence, Cowboy, is USED to. When she’s ready to talk about it with you, she’ll bring it up. Be patient.”

“Yeah, but . . . .” Nick began helplessly, running a hand through his hair. Wally finally turned his glance from the screen and blinked at him.

“But you’re uneasy about being attracted to someone who seems to blend both genders.”

“Yeah.” Nick admitted weakly. Wally gave an eloquent shrug.

“Then you have some thinking to do. Now pipe down.”

Nick leaned back on the sofa, not particularly happy to comply. They watched another two episodes, and finally the sound of a key in the door made them both look up; Wally rose stiffly to his feet, rubbing his thighs. Starr came in, looking relieved. She smiled at them. “Hey guys—still have a corn dog left?”

“Three, but you’ll have to reheat them. I’m beat, Twinkle—see you tomorrow,” Wally sighed. He came around the sofa, kissed Starr loudly on the cheek and left, making his way out of the duplex as Nick began to clear off the coffee table. Starr plucked the corn dogs up and set them on a plate; Nick glanced her over.

God she looked good. Long, long legs, chocolate brown eyes, and that rack . . . 

“Didn’t you get any waffles?” he asked gruffly.

“I had half of one. Big Mike’s bulking up for the Mr. Las Vegas competition and he sort of confiscated most of my dinner,” She remarked, poking at the microwave numbers with one finger. Nick leaned on the kitchen counter annoyed and amused at the same time.

“So he invited you out to dinner then ATE yours? That’s not much of a date, Starr.”

“Well the food wasn’t the highlight, I agree. But Big Mike’s a good guy.” She brightened and added, “He showed me his weasel.”

“W-what?” Nick coughed a little; Starr laughed and waggled a finger at him.

“Dirty MIND, Nick Stokes. He’s got a pet ferret named Sheila. Pretty cute, too. “

“A ferret, not a . . . never mind,” Nick blushed, well aware he’d been teased and not minding it for the moment. Starr pulled the corn dogs out and slipped the end of one into her pretty mouth; Nick fought the second flush at the lewd image she presented.

“Yeah, well cute as his weasel is, I don’t think I’ll go out with him again. The conversation was pretty much dedicated to his weightlifting regime,” came her muffled reply as she took a bite. “I like to talk about other things besides protein shakes and workout routines.”

Nick nabbed one of the remaining corndogs and waved it at her. “So--not into powerlifters?”

“Not my type. If we didn’t have Mercedes in common I probably wouldn’t have said yes, but he looked kind of lonely, and I knew he’d treat me all right.” She hesitated and looked at Nick for a serious second. “Not every guy wants to be seen in public with me you know.”

“Aw, Starr . . . .” Nick mumbled, feeling heat across his face. She picked up her plate and moved gracefully around to the sofa, flouncing onto it and scowling at her corn dog.

“It’s true Nick. You don’t know what it’s like. I know guys who’ll be more than happy to see me as long as it’s not outside the bar, or their homes. And even though I’m biologically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally a woman, the fact that at one time I wasn’t is enough to make some sort of difference. You know what I REALLY am?” she challenged, her chin quivering a little.

Nick very carefully stepped over to the sofa and sat down, his actions deliberate. “You tell me—what ARE you, REALLY, Starr Jankowitz?”

She smiled briefly at his courteous tone and her high drama broke apart, like a soap bubble. Starr let her head drop back and she laughed, very softly. “I am a scarred woman, Nicholas Stokes. Not a man, not a misguided soul, not a half and half, okay? I’m a woman with an Adam’s apple. A woman with bigger shoulders and feet than I should have. A woman who’ll never have kids even though I adore them. A women who loves men. Not women, not other transgenders, not gays—men. Guys, fellas, boys, the half of the planet with dicks.”

She looked over at him, noting Nick’s deep blush, his bright twinkling eyes and bashful grin and laughed some more. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I missed all that while I watched you playing around with your corn dog there—could you say it again?”

“You--” she growled playfully, and threw one of the little Lone Star pillows at him. Nick batted it away, still smiling. He reached for her thin wrist under the bangles and squeezed it gently.

“Hey, all kidding aside, Starr, I’m . . . working on it okay? I won’t lie that it didn’t throw me for a loop in the beginning. I’m not as open-minded as Grissom, but I’m trying, and you make it a lot easier because you put a face on it. But the truth is,” he swallowed and continued, “I like you. You for you that is, not whether you used to be something or are something now. Just because you’re Starr, okay?”

She nodded, kicking her sandals off and folding her legs up under her, and for a moment Nick saw her as a doe, graceful and long. Starr waved the half-eaten corn dog towards the screen. “Okay. So we’re good to go, right?”

And Nick nodded, feeling an odd sweetness deep inside as he picked up the remote.

*** *** ***

Nearly two weeks went by, and Nick took the time to think a bit more about Starr. About himself. About how many of his mornings coming off shift had been made a little lighter lately because of a woman with big brown eyes and a soft Texan drawl that echoed his own.

There were times when it was easy to feel good about her. Starr the sports fanatic, silly joker, the maker of killer enchiladas, the brilliant artist and not too bad a singer was definitely wonderful stuff. 

Then the tiny nagging burr of doubt would snag his thoughts, that passing ‘yeah, but—’ and Nick would find himself sighing. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her, no, that wasn’t it at all. Considering how often he’d studied the saucy curve of her ass, or the bounce of her bust, attraction wasn’t the issue—on that matter his body was Good to Go, big time.

Always it came back to his head. His mindset. The deep and fearful curiosity about . . . what lay between her slender hips.

He didn’t know. And he couldn’t ask. Starr said she was a girl, but in Nick’s experience, that was now covering a LOT of ground, and his traditional definition had been skewed eight ways to Sunday ever since the transgender case. 

Starr called herself a scarred woman; Nick worried about what that meant. Scarred emotionally? Scarred physically? Both? He had a panicky scenario of sliding a hand into her panties and getting a handful of something far too familiar---

And yet . . . he argued with himself, even then, Starr would still be—Starr.

For a fleeting moment, he felt an odd empathy for Francis Lavalle.

 

He pulled up at the duplex mid-afternoon on a Saturday, feeling the heat in a way he hadn’t lately. The temperature had shot up over the hundred degree mark, and the weatherman had indicated that there would be no relief any time soon. Nick hoped things would cool off after the sunset; he’d brought his DVD of Le Mans to share. Starr had a serious crush on Steve McQueen but had never seen the movie.

Nick climbed out, feeling his shirt sticking to his back. In the distance, the horizon shimmered, and although the reservoir cast a shadow, it wasn’t much of one. He heard music—ZZ Top’s LaGrange—coming faintly from Starr’s front door and grinned. He sauntered up and rang the bell; after a moment it opened, and Starr stood there smiling at him. “Hey Nick, come on out of the heat!”

Nick blinked, drinking in the sight of her leaning on the doorframe.

Starr’s hair was tied in two adorably messy ponytails, and she wore her usual shorts, but Nick couldn’t quite avoid staring at the pink tank top stretched tightly over her abundant chest. The logo beamed out at him: UFO Museum, Roswell, NM and right in the middle of it, a little green alien with the familiar black almond shaped eyes.

“Nice shirt,” he managed with a straight face, following her inside. “Did you actually go there?”

“Oh sure did! Wally took me last year and we took photos. Completely a tourist trap, but life’s too short not to do a few cheesy things, right?” Starr told him as she danced a little in the foyer. Nick realized she had a yellow plastic bucket full of sponges at her bare feet and an impish look on her face. He shook his head.

“And here I thought you just wanted my DVD—Starr, no, we are NOT washing your car!”

She thrust her jaw out, and the determined gleam in her eyes both tickled and annoyed him. Starr could be amazingly stubborn, a fact Nick had learned the hard way, argument after argument.

“Oh come ON Nick—with two of us it won’t take any time at all—hell, we can even do your truck too if you want,” she wheedled, her shoulders still moving to the music. Nick parked his hands on his hips and prepared to hold his ground, but the move made his damp shirt shift against his spine and suddenly the appeal of a little cold water sounded like a good idea. Starr saw his hesitation and giggled; she picked up the bucket and crooked a finger at him, motioning with her head to the driveway. “Come on, Butch, we have cars to wash.”

“Lead on, Sundance, but after this you owe me big time. I’m a skilled scientist you know, not manual labor around here.”

“Riiiiiiiiight.”

Starr had an ancient Volvo in dark blue; a staid little car that she’d dressed up with zebra seat covers on the interior. Nick particularly liked her bumper sticker that read ‘Miskatonic University Alumni’. She filled the bucket up, letting the water froth up the soap she’d added, and then turned the hose onto the car, wetting it down. The minute the water hit the metal surfaces, a little crackle rolled out, and steam rose.

“Yeow!” Starr observed. From the other side of the car, Nick grinned, white teeth flashing out at her reaction.

“Better wait a minute before soaping it up, or it will bake right on.” He pointed out. She nodded, and let the water cascade over the hood and top of the car before suddenly dropping the hose with an annoyed snort. Nick laughed as he came around and caught the sight of the unrolled window.

“Damn it!” she hissed, yanking open the door and furiously spinning the handle. The seat was already wet, the zebra fur looking soggy. Starr used the edge of her hand to sweep the puddle of water off the seat and then wiped her fingers on her shorts. “Well THAT was stupid.”

“It’ll dry out quick if you leave the window just a little open when we’re done,” Nick assured her. He had already slopped one of the sponges into the foamy bucket and was sweeping it over the hood in long, efficient strokes. Starr closed the door and reached for the hose once again, spraying the back end of the car.

The smell of wet metal and rubber mingled with baking concrete and dry grass. Nick felt content; simple chores done easily just felt good. He scrubbed efficiently, not minding the job at all now.

At least, he didn’t mind until the stream of icy water gushed down on his head, arcing from the other side of the car. Nick sucked in a breath, shuddering at the unexpected chill drenching him and he spun, shouting, “Starr! You are SO going to pay for that!”

The only answer was a loud laugh and another spray of water. Nick growled and lunged for the hose length lying on the cement, yanking on it hard. A squeal and a thump told him he’d succeeded in pulling it out of her grip. Triumphantly he drew in the hose hand over hand until he had the free-flowing end in one fist. He stepped around the car . . . 

And didn’t see her. Nick peered through the windows and noticed Starr had managed to scoot to the other side, keeping the Volvo between them.

“Nice try, Sundance, but I can still get you,” he announced.

“Suuuuure you can.” Came her taunt. Nick pretended to aim up, then ducked and shot the stream under the car, wetting her feet. Starr squealed again. “Oh MAN that’s cold!”

“You ought to feel it on your head—like THIS!” Nick shouted, carefully bracing the hose on the top of the car and pressing his thumb over the end. The added pressure forced the water out in a powerful spray that Starr couldn’t duck; it doused her thoroughly and she spun around hissing and spluttering even through her giggles. 

“Y-y-you have n-no sense of humor!” Starr accused hopping over to the bucket and fishing for a sponge. Nick grinned and leaned over the hood of the car.

“Hey, I’m laughing NOW,” he pointed out cheerfully. Starr heaved a sopping yellow square at him in retaliation but it missed, bouncing and falling to the driveway with a wet plop. Nick didn’t notice.

Point in fact, Nick wasn’t noticing anything beyond the sudden and shockingly hot sight of saturated pink cotton clinging in skin-tight fashion to Starr’s tits . . . Damn, tighter than skin-tight, emphasizing those big happy nipples rising up so stiff and perky . . . 

“Yeah, w-well we still need to get the car finished,” she grumbled turning away. Nick blinked, feeling dry-mouthed and a little stunned; he grabbed the hose and backed up, trying to concentrate on the wheel rims while the image of Starr burned against his retinas for a moment longer.

All woman, no damn question there, not when his palms tingled to feel the weight of those beauties resting in them—

“Nick?”

“Huh?” he turned, wide-eyed, but Starr was nowhere in sight, and he realized she was bent over, scrubbing the back bumper. Her voice came out again, amused.

“Can you get me the scrubbing brush from the bucket?”

“Oh. Yeah, hang on.” He turned and fumbled, fishing into the soap water and pulling the plastic brush out. Carefully he walked around to the back of the car, steeling himself for the sight of Starr, but it still hit him in a wave of lust.

Starr, low on her haunches, rubbing the sponge along the license plate, the vigorous circular movements making her chest bounce with every stroke, and the water sparkling in diamond drops in her hair—she looked up at him, and her eyebrows jumped a little. Nick knew in that moment that she’d spotted his erection.

He blushed.

She blushed.

For a moment they simply looked at each other, and the new awareness moved between them, sweet and awkward, as if another layer had been peeled away leaving them each a little more vulnerable.

Nick turned quickly, knowing it was too late but determined to press on. He fished for the sponge still resting on the hood, drawing it over the windows, and along the rear view mirror, smearing soap in bubbly trails with every swipe.

A bee zipped by; he ducked instinctively and waved a hand. The bee circled again, and Nick peeled off his soggy shirt, using it to shoo the insect away. “Beat it!”

“What?”

“Nothing. Stupid bee, that’s all,” he replied shortly. Behind him he heard a gasp. Nick looked over his shoulder to see Starr staring at him as she squeezed the scrubbing brush in her hands. The fresh glimpse at her semi-transparent tee shirt did nothing to calm him down, and Nick grimaced a little while keeping his hips turned. “What?”

“Oh my God. Oh my God you have the most beautiful definition I’ve ever SEEN, Nick Stokes. Oh my GOD—your rectis abdominae are gorgeous, honey!” she squealed, her ponytails bouncing. “Perfect deltoids, you’ve got textbook obliques—turn around, turn around!” She ordered happily. Startled, Nick looked down at himself, vaguely aware she was going on about his muscles and amused as hell about it. He turned obligingly and Starr yelped again.

“Damn it, your deltoids are just as perfect from the back and your lattisimus dorsi would make an anatomist weep, baby.”

“Starr---” Nick protested, blushing all over again. Sure he kept himself fit and worked out, but from the sounds Starr was making—

“I KNEW you had nice glutes, but all the rest of it was only a guess. Oh Butch, you HAVE to let me draw you. I’ll do ANYTHING to get you on paper!” she breathed, looking at him as if he was a cherry chocolate cheesecake. 

Nick began to shake his head. “NO—come on Starr, I’m no model, I’m a CSI, okay? Drawing my foot is one thing—” He didn’t get to finish because right then Starr yelped and tried to reach behind her. The move made her breasts all the more enticing, but Nick realized she was in pain.

“Damn it, it’s stinging! Nick!” She appealed to him and he moved around her to see the bee struggling against the wet cotton between Starr’s shoulder blades. He flicked it away and stepped on it firmly. Starr whimpered a little, still trying to touch the sting; Nick grabbed her elbow, feeling a little better. This was something he could do.

“Come on, Sundance—kitchen. Let’s see if you’ve got any baking soda.”

Meekly she allowed him to steer her inside and they did an awkward dance around the breakfast counter. “Middle shelf by the fridge,” Star mumbled. Nick found it and pulled the box down.

“You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No, just irritated,” she replied with a gulp. Nick grinned and turned on the faucet, rewetting his fingers before he scooped them into the box of baking soda. Then, he hesitated.

“Um . . . .” he began awkwardly. Starr, who had her back to him, looked over her shoulder. She caught his expression and understood; carefully she reached for the hem of her wet shirt and began to peel it up. Nick tried not to look, but hormones won out, and he watched as inch by inch her shirt rose up to reveal her long bare spine. The little knobs were well-defined, and the blades wide; the sting was a small white spot about the size of a quarter between them. 

Starr pulled her shirt off over her head and held it protectively against her chest as she waited.

Nick dabbed, gently. He smeared the mushy baking soda onto the sting in little dabs, trying not to press too hard, and fighting back the knowledge that Starr had no shirt on.

That she was standing here in the kitchen, topless.

That he was shirtless too.

So they were both half-naked in the kitchen, within a few inches of each other.

Suddenly Nick felt as if his skin was too tight, and that seething just under it was a drive stronger than he’d realized. Starr was so slender that he could see her ribs; the rounded curve of one breast peeked out on the side. He kept dabbing.

“Starr, I . . . think you ought to . . . put your shirt back on,” he told her in a monotone. She turned her head to look at him, and the sunlight filtering through the chili pepper curtains dappled her skin. She had freckles over her shoulders, and Nick knew he was only seconds from leaning over and kissing the base of her neck. 

Her big brown eyes shone with rich heat, and for a moment her chin trembled.

“Nick . . .” she breathed, and the WAY she said it, soft and hungry undid any good intentions he had left. Nick sighed harshly and bent forward, mouth pressing to the delicate skin on the side of her throat, kissing and feeling her rapid pulse there.

And then it felt as if his entire world went in and out of focus, as if time had paused. Nick slipped his arms around her waist, his mouth still on her skin. Starr moaned, low and sweet; a sound that stiffened his nipples and dick instantly. Nick kept kissing. Starr tasted like cotton candy with nutmeg, sweet with a little spice and he wanted more of it, a LOT more. His chest pressed to her spine, and the touch of bare skin between them felt so damned good. 

Starr leaned back against him, gasping when he nuzzled up under her ear, nosing around the ponytail to do so. Squirming, she turned in his arms, the wet tee-shirt still clutched against her chest, and now it was squeezed between them, warming to the double body heat, a thin damp barrier doing nothing at all. Starr’s eyes were half-closed, and Nick leaned forward to close the gap between his mouth and hers, slowly pressing his lips onto the softest kiss he was capable of.

It didn’t stay soft. Starr’s hands slid to cup the back of his neck, and Nick growled a little, pleasure sparking in hot little throbs all through him. His grip around her tightened, his arms gliding up behind her back, cupping her bare shoulder blades to pull her closer and just as he did, her tongue glided along the opening seam of his lips. He eagerly parted them, deepening the kiss with reckless heady pleasure.

She, Nick thought and on slamming on the back of that, Mine.

And their kisses intensified; deep and sweet, hungry, building in a smooth synchronicity of passion between them. Starr kissed with her whole body, quivering in his arms, clinging, making little animal moans as her tongue danced with his. The press of her warm happy chest against his sent hot pulses down his stomach and Nick held her tightly, rocked into her hips, not caring anymore about anything but this moment . . .

“Starr? Your hose is running all over the side---whoah, ‘scuse ME,” came the startled tones of Wally as he shuffled in, registered the sight in the kitchen and made a clumsy about-face. “I’ll just go turn the water off,” he slammed the door behind him as Nick and Starr jerked apart guiltily, each of them breathing hard. Starr was flushed and her chocolate eyes glittered in the afternoon light. She clutched the shirt against herself and gave a little shake, as if trying to break from the spell they’d been in just a moment before.

“I . . . better go change . . .” she mumbled in a soft, dazed voice. Nick stood there, trying to catch his breath, still feeling the tingle where his skin, his body had pressed against her. He ran a hand through his hair, at a loss for words. Starr moved past him, picking up speed, nearly running by the time she reached her bedroom. Nick heard the door slam, and he leaned on the counter, bracing him palms there and trying to figure out what to do next.

*** *** ***

She came out eventually, lost in a bulky blue sweatshirt and Nick tried not to laugh; he handed her a beer and sighed. “It’s a hundred and three outside, Starr. You’re going to roast in that thing.”

“I got cold,” she replied defensively, not looking at him even as she took the beer. Nick gave a shrug. He’d already retrieved his own shirt, finished washing the car and put away the bucket in the time it had taken her to come out of her bedroom. She wandered to the sofa and flopped down on it, taking a long pull of the beer as the silence between them grew heavy and awkward. Nick leaned over the counter and looked at her. “Wanna talk about it?”

“What’s there to say?” Starr mumbled. “I came onto you and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. Must have gotten carried away by all your muscles there.”

Her tone bothered him, and Nick set his beer down, drawing in a deep breath. He wanted to go over to the sofa, but sensed if he did Starr would retreat, so he kept where he was and spoke again, softly. “Hey, it takes two to tango, Sundance, so let’s be fair. Nobody forced me to kiss you. I wanted to kiss you,” he admitted.

Starr finally looked up at him, and a surge of something vulnerable and sweet hit Nick when he met her puppy brown eyes. She blinked. “I . . . wanted to kiss you too. It’s been hard to work up the courage.”

“Yeah, well I’d say we did pretty damn well for two scared shitless people,” Nick pointed out, chuckling a bit. It was true of course, and now that he could see her forlorn expression he felt himself relax a little. “Can I come over there?”

Starr laughed and patted the cowhide print cushions invitingly. Nick sauntered over and dropped himself down, sighing as he set his bottle of the coffee table. Starr shifted to face him, her blush back again. “I’m sorry for getting pushy, okay Nick? You know me; I’m not normally like this.”

“Whoah, hold on a minute. You weren’t pushy, I was. I saw your neck and went for it like a vampire,” he reminded her sheepishly, not precisely ashamed of the moment, but not proud of it either. Starr arched an eyebrow at his description, but didn’t argue. He rubbed a hand over his warm face. “It wasn’t like I was trying to take advantage of you—the opportunity sort of presented itself.”

“Oh.” Starr sounded a little faint, and Nick realized he’d made a faux pas. He gritted his teeth.

“Okay, that didn’t come out right. What I mean is that the opportunity I’d been WAITING for presented itself.”

Starr punched his arm lightly. “Good save, Stokes.”

“It’s true,” he protested, giving her a broken smile. “I’m not a player, not all smooth with women like Warrick.”

Starr shook her head and the look she gave him had a tenderness that warmed him right to his toes. “I like you just the way you ARE, Butch. And . . .” she trailed off. Nick waited until she cleared her throat. “You kiss good, too.”

That DID make him blush, and somehow it was easy to reach over and take her hand, weave his fingers with hers and squeeze her palm gently. Starr squeezed back and her grip was hard enough to make him wince. “Hey! No crushing the fingers!”

“Don’t go wussy on me now, Nick.”

“Yeah, keep that talk up and I’m taking my DVD home,” he threatened. Starr contritely dropped his hand and looked with delight at the box still sitting on the coffee table. She picked it up, stroking the cover.

“Woo! The Grand Prix AND Steve McQueen, I am so in LOVE!” Starr declared loudly. Nick rolled his eyes, but managed to move closer to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Startled, she allowed it, and he leaned forward, whispering.

“We’re watching it for the CARS, Starr. And the racing.”

“And Steve McQueen.”

“Woman, you have such a one-track mind.” He grinned, and she settled against his shoulder, her eyes bright.

 

The movie ran long; they took a break in the middle to order a pizza and didn’t start the film up again until after the food arrived, hot and delectable. Starr made a salad to go with it; by the time the soundtrack faded away and the last credits rolled, Nick felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction. He checked his watch and realized it was time to head into work; with a sigh Nick picked up the box and set it on the counter. 

Starr rose up too and undid her ponytails, finger combing her hair out and giving her head a shake. “I’m going to have to shower before going in, but hey, at least my car’s clean.”

“I just hope the seat’s dry,” Nick shot back with a grin. Starr winced. She walked him to the door, and once they reached her porch they both paused. The awkwardness was back, full-strength; a sweet and shy thing between them. Nick cleared his throat.

“Hey Starr?” he asked, his voice lower than usual. Overhead the stars were out, and the heat of the day lingered in the darkness. Starr slouched against the doorframe, her velvety eyes bright.

“Yeah?”

“I’d like—well, would it be okay if you and I went out sometime?” he blurted, running a hand along the back of his neck. Nick hated how he sounded, nervous and stuttery, but it wasn’t easy to ask, much as he’d thought about it. For a moment the night was quiet, and then Starr made a soft little sound, repeating it again.

“Um hmm.”

“That’s yes?” he asked, needed some confirmation, looking up at her as the light from her duplex spilled over her shoulders and backlit her. Starr nodded.

He grinned, and the flood of relief was so strong, so overwhelmingly good all through his chest and shoulders that Nick laughed out loud. Then Starr cupped his face tenderly in her hands, bent forward and kissed him.

Soft and sweet, her mouth was deliciously flavored with hints of the pizza, and he pulled her up against him as he leaned on the doorframe. The kiss deepened between them, building up quickly as Nick’s tongue happily circled Starr’s. Crickets chirped in the semi-darkness; and distantly the sound of someone’s MTV carried over the warm lawns.

Reluctantly Starr gripped Nick’s shoulders and pulled herself away, laughing a little as she blinked. “Oh you are a bad, bad man, Nick Stokes. You better go before . . . “

He smiled, his dimples deep for a moment, and then sighed. Carefully he hugged her, letting her mold herself against him, allowing the sweet unspoken kiss of their bodies to happen.

The fit was good. Nick gave her a last kiss and turned away, heading for his car, feeling a twist in his stomach. The mild frustration of being half-hard ached a little, but he could deal with that later. Right now all that mattered was that he’d asked, and she’d said yes. 

It was a good night.

*** *** ***

“So you’re going out with her.”

“Yep. Figured I’d take her to the Double Deuces and we’d do whatever she likes—pool, maybe some darts. Hand me that bindle would you? Thanks.”

“Let me get this straight—You’ve been hanging out at her place for a couple of months now and this is the first time you’re taking her out?” Greg sounded puzzled. Nick looked up from the little pile of glass shards in the sink and nodded. “May I ask WHY this took so long?”

“Nope.”

“Oh come on—if you hang out at some girl’s house then the two of you are friends. But if you move to going out, then that indicates some sort of escalation. Action, as it were.”

Nick said nothing, pretending to concentrate on the tweezers in his gloved hands. Greg’s question bothered him a little more than he wanted to admit, and he wasn’t about to state the real reason it had taken so long to make the transition. Instead, he sighed. Greg got out another bindle and labeled it.

“Fine—so you’re officially seeing somebody and I’m happy for you, okay? You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m glad for you.” When Nick looked up, surprised, Greg added, “Warrick and I have been, you know, worried about you. Since the whole . . . burial thing. Worried that you’d be pulling back from life, and stuff.”

“Pulling back from life?” Nick wondered, trying not to laugh at the phrase and touched at the concern on Greg’s face.

“Well yeah,” he admitted softly, looking down at the evidence. “It happens sometimes to people who have shit happen. I felt like it after the explosion in the lab. For a long time I didn’t want to do anything but work and go straight home.”

Nick said nothing, feeling a little stunned and guilty at Greg’s admission. He’d never thought about the other man’s experience, never considered what Greg been through. His expression must have shown on his face because Greg gave a small smile and spoke up again. “Hey, don’t worry about me. It took some time, and just being at work with everyone there for me helped a lot. Things happen to all of us, and I guess the point is that we go on because we have people who care.” He laughed and added, “And now that we’ve had our Doctor Phil moment for the day, let’s get this stuff finished up, okay?”

Nick nodded, suddenly grateful to have Greg around.

He called Mina’s bar during his lunch break and smiled when he heard Starr’s soft drawl on the line: “Mina’s, how can I help you?”

“You can say yes to a Saturday night out with me.”

“Nick! This Saturday?”

“Yeah, I have it off. Traded with Warrick. Can you make it?” Nick asked lightly, feeling both nervous and happy. In the background he could hear the sounds of the bar, and the faint strains of “Desperado” coming through the line.

“I can make it—Oh God, um, where are we going?”

”The Double Deuces?”

A little squeal told him it was the perfect suggestion, and Nick felt a flush of pleasure wash through him at the sound. Making Starr happy felt good, and he grinned into the phone. Such a little thing, and yet his mood was suddenly lighter than it had been in days.

“We can play pool, and oh Nick, do you dance?”

“A little. Don’t get your hopes up, Starr,” he warned with a laugh, “Just because I have a few muscles does NOT mean I’m co-coordinated.”

“You’re from Texas. At the LEAST you can two-step,” she reminded him tartly. 

Nick snorted but finally admitted, “Yeah, I suppose I can. Pick you up around seven?”

“Seven. And Nick?” Starr’s voice dropped lower, almost lost amid the sounds of the bar around her, “Thank you. I’m really happy.” She hung up quickly, before he had a chance to say anything to her last words.

But Nick thought about them all week.

*** *** ***

The flowers were a last minute impulse, and looking at them on the car seat, Nick worried that they would wilt before he reached Starr’s duplex. The only choice at the corner market had been white daisies, but the cellophane made a nice cone, and it was too late to change anything now. 

He scooped them up and headed up the walk, spotting Wally out on his lawn again, this time with a telescope. Nick slowed and the older man waved him over, giving him a cursory glance.

“Looking pretty Home on the Range there, Romeo,” Wally commented blandly. Nick glanced down at his collarless shirt and new jeans, flushing a little.

“Yeah well, special occasion and all.”

“You’re telling ME,” Wally harrumphed, finally turning a stern gaze at Nick. He rested his hands on the telescope and kept looking until Nick until the younger man gave a low sigh.

“Wally, if you have something to say, man, just say it, okay?” Came Nick’s exasperated comment. He shifted the flowers from one hand to the other, and Wally broke into a soft smile, his mustache shifting to reveal his big white teeth. He chuckled.

“Fine. I envy you on this fine night, Nicholas Stokes. I envy you your youth and looks, your ability to stay awake past eleven o’clock and mostly, your night out with beautiful Starr. There is a celestial alignment on the horizon, and the influence of the moon does wonders for lonely souls in an attractive orbit.”

“Okaaayy,” Nick muttered, but Wally solemnly winked at him and turned back to the telescope.

“Bottom line, Nick—have a good time and let things unfold as they should. You’re only young now, boy—so enjoy the moment. Nice posies—she’s gonna love those.”

Nick relaxed, straightening up. He flashed a bright smile back at Wally and gave a little nod of thanks, then headed back towards the front door of Starr’s side of the duplex, ringing the bell.

It took longer than usual for her to answer the door; so long that Nick had begun to get a little nervous. Wally wasn’t watching—his focus was through the lens piece of the telescope—but Nick felt a sense of amusement radiating from the older man. Then the door finally opened and he looked up.

Breathing hurt.

Starr stood there, a long curvy nymph in a powder pink mini-dress that clung in all the right places and enough of the wrong ones to make Nick’s mouth go dry. Starr smoothed her hands down her hips self-consciously, and then shot him a look. “Hey Nick—almost ready.”

Nick knew HE was ready, oh yeah. Ready to stay in and forget about the Double Deuces while he and Starr played Find the Zippers. He blinked that hot hormonal thought away and managed a bright smile. Woodenly, he handed her the cone of daisies and she sighed, taking them from his nerveless fingers.

“Oh Butch they’re beautiful! Let’s get these in water.” Turning she provided Nick with an excellent view of her ass that he enjoyed all the way into the kitchen. She reached up for a vase, talking the entire time. “ . . . And they LIKED the drawing, but they wanted a woman’s foot as well, so I have to start all over again. Nick? Are you okay?”

“Fine. You look . . . incredible,” he finally admitted. The minute he said it, Starr relaxed, tossing a long curl out of her face as she blushed a bit.

“Yeah, well you look pretty yummy too. I guess we both wanted to make a good impression, huh?” she admitted in a giggly voice. Nick gave her a tender glance.

“I guess so.”

Starr laughed a little self-consciously and stepped out into the living room again. She glanced down at her feet. “Need to go dig out some flats—be right back.”

“No heels?” Nick asked, taking his time looking at her legs. He liked letting her see him do it; it was fun to make her blush a little, and Nick realized she truly was nervous. The thought made him just a bit warm under the collar.

“Nick,” Starr sighed, “If I wear heels, I’ll, ah . . . I’ll be taller than you.”

“So?” he blurted back, grinning. For a moment Starr stared at him, her warm brown eyes very rich in the lamplight. Then she gave a sweet sigh, smiling.

“God Nick Stokes, you’re just . . . incredible.”

“Yeah, well remember that for later, okay?” he leaned back against the counter, elbows bracing himself. “Come on—I know you’re tall and it’s never bothered me; you know that.”

“Yeah, but that was at home, not—in public,” she pointed out. “Some guys aren’t cool with that.”

“Some guys are idiots.” Nick pointed out impatiently. “I’m trying not to be one of them. So—dinner at El Rosale first?”

 

*** *** ***

The music was loud, and by the sound of Starr’s enthusiastic accompaniment, irresistible. Nick watched her sway in her seat a little, enjoying the bounciness and well aware of the envious looks he was getting from all over the club. The Double Deuces had a lot of pretty women, but it was clear that Starr was making an impression, and Nick wondered if she was even aware of it.

She could be quite a flirt—he knew and appreciated that—but that was on a one to one basis. Here, she seemed oblivious to the attention and Nick speculated that it could have been habit, cultivated from years of tending bars. In his time with her, Starr had mentioned working in various places since she’d graduated college and he got the impression she was content with the part-time work.

“Nick, could we dance?” she called to him across the table, breaking into his musings. Nick hesitated a moment, then gave a self-effacing sigh and nodded. It was impossible to say no tonight; Starr had teased him, flattered him and made him laugh so many times that this little concession wouldn’t hurt. She helped him feel good; better than he had in months and Nick hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this lightness of heart. 

He led her out on the floor as the previous song ended and for a second they stared at each other, the new awareness between them still evident in the fluttery touch of Starr’s hand on his shoulder as Nick stepped closer to her, laying a hand on her hip. Then the music began, and they both stiffened a moment.

Slow song.

Carefully, almost reverently Nick pulled Starr into his embrace as the sweet strains of the Eagle’s ‘Best of my Love’ began to play. Around them other couples were shuffling along, and the fans overhead barely kept a breeze going, but Nick ignored all of it, only aware of the way Starr’s body molded to his; hips and stomach pressing sweetly against is own. She slid her arms over his shoulders and rested her cheek against his; the scents of her: warm woman and perfume, mingled with the music in a way Nick knew he’d remember forever.

“I love this song,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

They moved, rocking together naturally, falling into gentle rhythm to the music; not looking at each other, but still communicating in the most basic and sweetest of ways. Nick’s grip around her slender back tightened as he felt this throat ache.

This was good, this moment here and now with Starr in his arms just like this, and Nick turned to press the corner of his mouth to hers, smiling.

“Do you know how much I like you, Starr Jankowitz?” he asked, his voice over the melody. He felt her tremble ever so slightly, as if his question frightened her, so Nick squeezed her a bit.

“No,” she admitted in a tiny voice. He hummed softly, and in a moment of sheer bravado, Nick finally allowed himself to cup his hands over the bouncy curve of Starr’s ass, gripping it possessively. She started against him, and giggled, her own arms hugging him back. “Ohh! That much?”

“That much, Sundance. Oh damn, I know it’s not a polite thing to say, but you have an incredible butt,” he gulped, feeling it was an understatement. The sweet muscle of her ass flexed with every step, and he helplessly ground himself against her, enjoying the friction and realizing it was creating a big problem between them.

A noticeable problem.

Then Starr gave a low sigh and shifted, moving her tummy on his in a way that left no doubt that she not only noticed, but approved. Nick’s stomach tightened in quick reaction, his fingers clenching on the pillow of her ass.

“Oh Nick . . .” she trailed off happily. “This is good.”

Nick closed his eyes, feeling that ‘good’ was hardly sufficient for what he was feeling. ‘Wonderful’ was a better choice’ fantastic’ worked too, and even ‘thrilled.’ He wished the song would keep playing for the next week or so, but it drew to an end several long, dreamy minutes later. Reluctantly he loosened his grip, and when Starr pulled free of his embrace he realized her eyes were wet. She blinked, rubbing her nose, and gave him a clownish smile.

“Sorry, I just get a little teary when I’m happy and right now I’m really really happy.”

“Yeah, well, me too,” he admitted gruffly. 

 

They drove home, talking lightly of little things, Nick feeling the sweet tension deep in his stomach. He knew, easily and honestly, that Starr felt it too. Her grip in his free hand was very warm, and her fingers laced with his as their hands rested on her thigh. As the reached the shadow of the reservoir, Starr gave his grip a squeeze.

“What time is it?”

Nick looked. “A little after eleven.”

“Good. Wally will be asleep,” she murmured. Nick felt his anticipation go up another pleasurable notch. He pulled up and helped her out, and as he did so, Starr pointed up to the full moon spilling her silvery sheen across the quiet houses and lawns further down the road. “Wow. Wally told me there was supposed to be some sort of alignment tonight that would make everything clear.”

Nick laughed.

On the porch, just as she finished fishing out her key, he leaned over and kissed her quickly, a straight lingering peck that he didn’t draw out. Nick sighed playfully. “Well, it sure was a great night, Starr. See you.”

She laughed.

“Get your cute butt back here, Butch. If you think that qualified as a kiss goodnight, think again.”

“Yeah? Well in that case I may have to do a lot of thinking,” he commented, following her into the dark house. Starr turned to Nick as he closed the door behind his back. They reached for each other, fumbling a little in the shadows, sliding into a desperate hug. Nick found her lips with his, feeling her answering hunger when their mouths opened wetly in a quick, thrilling kiss.

Hands slid, fabric rustled, Starr laughed breathlessly, working her way in lingering kisses to Nick’s ear. “Oh yeah, much better!”

“Yeah . . .” Nick agreed thickly. It had been a long time, as his unruly body reminded him, and here in the dark, in this secret moment of passion he knew that he wanted her. He tried to speak, but she kept kissing him, enticing him into slick tongue games and his hands moved restlessly over her thin dress. 

Finally Starr impatiently took his hand and brought it up to her breast; Nick groaned and flexed his fingers. “Ohhh damnnnn!”

“That’s good, right?” Starr muttered between kisses down the side of his neck. Nick nodded jerkily, and then slid his palm over the curve in a strong caress. It felt better than he’d imagined, and between his thighs his cock thickened in quick response to the sensations under his fingers.

Then Starr sucked just under his ear, along the ultra-sensitive skin there and Nick throbbed. Everywhere. His free hand slid down her ass, clutching it hard as he pulled her tightly against him and gasped. In his arms, Starr let her laugh muffle itself against his skin.

“Hot spot, huh? I’ll have to remember that one!”

“Starr—!” he gulped, twisting the two of them until she was the one against the door, “Babe, You have to tell me what you want. Kinda going crazy here.”

Taking a deep breath, Starr slid her arms around Nick’s ribcage, then let her hands drop to cup his ass, squeezing it.

“I want . . . to make you feel good, Nick. I want to kiss you in a lot of places . . . .” she confessed huskily. “I don’t think I can sleep with you yet, but I want to.”

Nick gave a low happy growl and kissed her again, this time doing it very lightly on her forehead. “You already make me feel good. And yeah, I want to kiss you too, every place you’ll let me.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

Starr shifted, and took his hand, leading him in the dark to the sofa in the living room. Little shafts of moonlight came through the windows and made silvery rectangles on the floor. Nick felt his pulse, hard and fast throbbing in his head. Starr dropped herself to the sofa, tugging on his hand, and Nick followed her, sliding into her arms again, feeling the comfortable joy of her embrace.

They kissed, slowing down now to savor each other, so taste and suckle and learn each other’s mouths. Nick loved the way Starr yielded to his tongue at times, teasing it with her own. She shuddered when he nipped her lower lip, and retaliated by sprinkling little mouthings of her own all over his face.

And all the while, they laughed. 

“Nick! Okay, you might call yourself a gentleman, but I know where your hands are.”

“I know where they are too.”

“And your fingers are cold!”

“Sorry, Sundance, just trying to warm them up . . .”

“Ooh!”

Nick fought himself, fought the urges to take instead of tease, The lushness of Starr’s chest just under the thin material of her dress taunted him, and his fingers ached to touch the skin under it. As if reading his desires, Starr reached over and tugged the fabric off her shoulder, then looked at him, her eyes wide in the semi-darkness.

“Yes, I want it,” she told him, and gratefully, Nick bent his head, pressing his mouth to the sleek flesh of her bare shoulder. He gently kissed his way down, mouth traveling over the rising swell, dimly aware that Starr was softly moaning with pleasure but he was too caught up in the satiny warm curve under his lips.

He tugged the fabric lower, and nuzzled; the eager, beautiful nipple appeared, and Nick gave a groan that rose up straight from his balls. Then Starr arched up and his mouth opened, tongue flicking out over the ruckered flesh.

Starr moaned, deep and musically. She slid her arms around Nick’s shoulders, pulling him to her as she lay back, shifting the two of them on the couch. Nick suckled; Starr writhed.

“Oh God, Nick, ohhhhh,” she mewled as her hands clutched his back, pulling him closer and for long moments in the dark they rocked together, making the couch creak a bit. Then Starr tensed, her fingers digging into Nick’s shoulders as she gripped one of his thighs with hers. He felt her slow spasms against his body and the urge to give in himself rose up but he fought it back, letting her pleasure crest and ebb under him. 

He licked the proud perky nipple again, and Starr twitched, her voice low and satisfied. “You bad, bad man---“

“Did you just--?”

“Mmmmm--for your information, yes I did. I have very sensitive tits. “

“God. No kidding!”

“It’s the hormones I take,” Starr sighed. “I got lucky that way.”

Nick laughed against the warm curve of her breast. “Me too.”

Starr giggled as well, and reached for the other shoulder, tugging the top of her dress down until her entire chest was exposed in the dim light. Nick raised himself up enough to appreciate the view, his breath coming in little wheezes.

“Let me guess—you’re a boob man?”

He bent enough to kiss her. “I’m a Starr man.”

She slid a hand around to his chest, and let it glide down the front of his shirt until she reached his belt buckle. “I like that. Now let’s see what you have to play with.”

“Damn you’re pushy,” he growled with embarrassed eagerness, watching her undo it.

“Complaining?” Starr questioned softly, pausing a moment.

“Hell no. Lucky, more like.” Nick admitted. She laughed and pushed him back a bit, readjusting them both on the sofa until Nick was the one sprawled out. Starr slowly set to work on his shirt buttons, kissing him after every one. Nick sighed with pleasure.

“Ohh, feels good,” he gloated when she pressed her bare chest to his and settled in for a few deep kisses. The light weight of her, and the pliant bouncy press of her chest on his pecs made Nick nearly light-headed. Starr moved to kiss him under his ear again and he rocked his hips up into her growling with pleasure.

“Sundance—!” he warned her, and she teased him for just a moment longer, then slid one hand back down to his bulging fly.

“Hey—how long have you been like this?”

“Too long,” Nick snorted in frustration. “Only about two months, six days and some odd number of hours.”

“Nick . . .” Starr whispered with a little twisted choke in her voice. She cupped the bulge and kissed him again, making Nick chuff a little against her lips. Then, carefully she slithered down and quickly tugged his zipper open. Her warm fingers touched him, circled his shaft with a firm grip that held him back perfectly. Nick bit his lip and looked down the length of his body to watch her, feeling as if lust was roasting him alive. Starr used her other hand to caress his cock.

“Oh Butch, you ARE a Texan!” she giggled, and gently slid her mouth over the head. Nick’s low pleasure-filled groan rose out of his throat, and his fingers tightened on the cushions of the sofa. 

The sight of his cock sliding in and out of Starr’s pretty mouth hurt with a passionate intensity. He held off as long as he could, but it had been too long and his body rebelled against any more delay. His pulse thrummed hard, and the warm unmistakable pressure behind his balls flared with sweet urgency, rising fast and hard.

“StarrGodbabyI’mgonnacomeloveyouohhhhhhh---“ he cried out in a fast slur of words and feelings, his orgasm erupting wetly. Starr loosened her grip and kept her head still, drinking him in, letting him ride out his bliss in several thrusts before she pulled back, swallowing thoughtfully. With tenderness she licked him clean and gently tucked his softening cock back into his underwear. 

Nick gripped her shoulders and pulled her up onto him against him. He kissed her hard on the mouth, then dropped lighter ones across her cheeks and chin and nose and eyes before kissing her lips once more. “OhhhhGod. You’re amazing. You’re wonderful and I hope you don’t mind but I’m pretty damn sure I’m in love with you, Starr Jankowitz.”

“I don’t mind,” she laughed, and burst into tears.

*** *** ***

He stayed. They sprawled together on the sofa, not letting go of each other unless absolutely necessary. Starr pulled a blanket out of the closet and Nick tucked it around them, kissing the top of her head in the darkness, and for a long while they basked in the comfort of being together. Nick fought his post-orgasmic lassitude and finally spoke softly.

“I wasn’t kidding you know.”

“Mmmm. I know. You’re not the sort of guy to say things he doesn’t mean,” Starr agreed sleepily. “One of your charms, Nick.”

“Okay then,” he closed his eyes. “You like huevos rancheros?”

“Is that an offer?”

“Yep.”

“You’re on, Butch.”

The next time Nick woke up though, it was because the faint scent of bacon was drifting through the living room. He stirred, feeling the warm sweet muzziness of deep sleep fading when he realized where he was. Carefully he raised his head and looked over to the kitchen. Starr had her back to him, humming. She’d changed into a tank top and shorts with her hair tied up with a ribbon; that long curve of neck was begging to be nibbled.

Quietly he rose off the couch, trying not to make any noise, and slunk into the kitchen behind Starr, grabbing her with a playful growl. Starr yelped and her spatula went flying. It clattered onto the earth tile floor as she squealed.

“Nicholas Stokes, don’t DO that! You about gave me a heart attack!”

Nick laughed, pressing kisses along her neck, hugging her tightly. “I know CPR; you’d be in good hands.”

“Yeah, well what if I’d had a knife or something?”

“I’m not THAT foolish,” he told her, looking into the bacon pan with interest. “Hey, is all that for me?”

“No—I get a strip or two, thank you very much. How do you want your eggs?”

Nick looked at the carton and gave a little sigh. “I could still make the rancheros if you’d like.”

“I’d like,” Starr dimpled, handing him a clean spatula.

They turned out pretty good; a little brown on one side of the omelet, but the cheese had melted perfectly and Starr praised the dish extravagantly, so Nick felt proud of himself. He finished his in record time, aware of his appetite and blushing a little at the cause. Starr watched him eat, smirking a bit.

“A little hungry this morning, are we?”

“A bit. I’m always hungry after, er, sofa smooching,” he announced. Starr snickered.

“I bet. And now comes the hard part,” she sighed a little wistfully. Nick looked at her, puzzled, and Starr returned it knowingly. “Oh come on, Butch. We both need to sleep; I’ve got the bar tonight and you’re back to work.”

“So why can’t we sleep together?” he asked cheerfully. Starr shot him a look of wry amusement.

“Seriously. Sleep. As in no nookie, just two bodies bedding down for a good long nap?” her tone held polite skepticism, and Nick blushed, aware that despite his good intentions, his body wasn’t ABOUT to make living up to them easy. He nodded, a glint of mischievousness in his gaze.

“Yep. I’ve got a king-sized bed, reasonably clean sheets and a good reputation.”

“That latter is in question, Butch.” Starr snorted, “And I don’t think it’s YOU I have to worry about.”

“Oh REALLY?” he demanded with a grin, making her blush. Starr shook her head, but he could see her resolve weakening, and Nick cocked his head, shyly. “Hey, I’m serious you know. Nothing has to happen; nothing’s gonna happen without your say so. You know that, right?”

“I—“ she smiled, “know that, yeah. Makes the offer really tempting, too. I haven’t cozied up in a long time, Nick.”

“So do it. We always spend time here, and I love your place, but I’ve got the bigger bed. You can pack your PJs and an outfit for work,” his grin widened, “I could scrub your back in the shower—!”

“Butch!”  
*** *** ***

Starr looked over at the bed and swallowed a little; Nick could see her nervousness and felt a pang of anxiety himself. To cover it, he cleared his throat.

“So—right or left?”

“Huh?”

“Which side do you want? Your sofa didn’t give us enough room to work that out.”

“Oh! Uh, I usually sleep in the middle.”

Nick snorted. “Shoot. Me too. We’ll just have to fight it out. I should probably take the right though—closer to the door.”

Starr nodded tightly, and moved around the bed, setting her shopping bag on the chair by the window. Nick followed her and closed the blinds, twisting the little rod to darken the room from the bright Nevada sunlight. He forced himself to relax a bit.

“You can have the bathroom first—I’ve got some Email to check on,” he muttered. 

Out in his living room, Nick took his time opening mail both paper and electronic, aware of little sounds coming from his bedroom. It tickled him to know Starr was there, puttering around, settling in, if only for the afternoon. By the time he walked in again fifteen minutes later, after checking the front door lock and turning the sound off his phone, she was already under the sheets, curled on her side. Nick called to her.

“Hey. You okay with this?”

“Um, yeah. I like your pillows,” Starr called over her shoulder. Nick smiled at that and stepped into the bathroom. He came out moments later and slipped into bed, feeling first the coolness of the sheets and then the glorious warmth of Starr’s spine. He lightly spooned around her, hesitantly laying his arm along her waist, not pushing to go any closer.

She snuggled back against him. Nick sighed, feeling his tension melt a bit, and just let the warmth of her long spine pressing to his tee-shirt and pajama bottoms soothe him. For a long time they lay there together, not talking, just drifting in the comfort of physical contact, and the only sound was the high drone of a jet far overhead.

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“I like this.”

“Me too,” he admitted gently. “I love the way you feel. And smell. All of it.”

Starr laughed softly, and then sighed. “Nick, do you want to talk about it?”

He nearly blurted ‘about what?’ when it dawned on him what she meant. Nick gave her waist a gentle squeeze. “Only if you want to, Starr.”

“I . . . yeah, I think I do.”

She rolled over until she was on her back, staring up at the ceiling and not looking at him; Nick liked her profile in the dim light, and gently let his hand stroke over her stomach as she spoke. “You know my mom died about fifteen years ago. She . . . knew I was a girl; that I was going to have the operation for it. My dad didn’t. The last thing my mom said to me was it was the right thing.” Starr swallowed hard. “That meant a lot to me.”

“Yeah,” Nick sighed sympathetically. Starr’s stomach was flat and smooth and warm, and much as he wanted to extend his stroking in both directions, Nick kept his touch circling her midriff. Starr blinked.

“Anyway, I was born with a penis.No testicles, but a penis. Testicular agenesis to be exact. The doctors told my mom and dad that my testicles would descend but they never did. When I was about three they took me in and had specialists look at me and it turned out the ones I had were underdeveloped.” Starr chuckled a moment. “My testicles that is, not the specialists. The doctors told my folks I’d be sterile and would need hormones; all that stuff.” She turned her head to look at him. “That’s when they told my mom and dad I’d be better off as a girl.”

“Wow. That must have been . . . hard,” Nick commented, feeling foolish for stating the obvious but wanting to reassure her. Hearing her choked words, sensing the emotion behind them stirred him and Nick stroked her stomach again. Starr spoke once more.

“My dad didn’t agree. He and my mom fought all the time, and my . . . condition . . . didn’t help anything. My mom called me Starr, and my dad called me . . . Stan.”

“Stan?” Nick echoed, fighting a smile, embarrassed to be amused by it, but Starr laughed first in a soft, self-deprecating way.

“Yeah. Stanley Jankowitz, Junior. Except I wasn’t Stan the man; not really. I grew but my dick didn’t. And puberty—God, talk about a nightmare. My body was cranking out estrogen AND testosterone, and I was realizing how cute the boys were the entire time and thinking I was not only a freak but gay too. If they EVER develop a way to wipe out certain memories, Nick, I’m signing up to totally erase the years I was thirteen and fourteen. Totally eradicate them.”

“Geez,” Nick gulped. “Didn’t you have anyone to talk to? Any . . . I dunno, counselors or friends or something?”

Starr smiled gently. “Yeah, I did. One of the specialists. She kept in touch with me, and I called her a lot. Maria Molina—Doctor Maria. She helped me start doing the research and hooked me up with some other transgender patients she knew. By the time I as eighteen I was ready to make the change, and so . . . I did.”

Nick drew in a breath. He moved closer, hugging Starr and she clung to him for a wordless moment, her grip strong. Then she trailed a hand over his cheek and looked into his face, her own eyes serious and deep.

“I came through it really well. The doctors told me I was a textbook case, and once they got the dosage of hormones right for me, I sort of blossomed. Got my chest, some padding on the butt and hips, and felt better about myself than I had in a long, long time. And . . . that’s pretty much it.”

“Okay then.” Nick murmured, feeling tenderness mingling with a profound sense of humility. Starr’s trust in him was making his jaw ache, and the sweet feel of her, lush and warm had his entire body on high alert. He dropped his head, sighing, and Starr let her touch stroke his chest.

“So . . . if you want to . . . look at me . . .”

“Look at--? Oh! Uh, yeah. Yeah—” he replied awkwardly. Starr bit her lip and shifted her hands, reaching under the covers for her panties, fumbling to get them off. Nick pushed back the coverlet, letting his gaze slide over her lanky frame. Her full chest straining at her tiny tee shirt, her flat stomach, and under that . . . curly fluff covering a chubby mound nestling between her slender thighs. 

Nick stared. He was certainly no virgin; in his time he had seen a fair number of unclad women, both in life and print. He knew what a woman’s body looked like and Starr was . . . a woman. Cautiously he shifted, rising and turning himself until he was bent over her thigh, looking at the dark glossy triangle of furry curls between her hips.

He sighed harshly as his lower body responded with blatant enthusiasm. Starr sat up, resting on her elbows and blushing a little, her knees still together. “All girly girl—or as close to it as I can get. The wiring’s a little off though. I don’t have any um, love button.”

“Huh.” Nick murmured, tentatively reaching out his fingers to touch. “But you do have orgasms, right?” 

“Um, yeah,” Starr blushed. She took his hand and guided it through her lush fur, quivering a little at his gentle, arousing touch. Instinctively her thighs opened a bit, and Nick cupped his hand over her mound, pressing against it gently. Starr gave a breathless moan, and with that sound whatever inhibition that had been holding Nick back lessened. He stroked her again, urging her legs apart as he bent closer, chin brushing her thigh.

“God, Sundance, you smell nice . . .” he told her in a thick low voice, his breathing a little erratic. Starr flexed one knee, and protectively dropped a hand along the inside of her thigh.

“Nick, I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry but I want you so much right now,” she confessed in a sob, “And I promised myself I wouldn’t tease, but---”

“No, you’re not, and I want you too,” he admitted, turning his head to look up along the length of her body at her. “Want you a LOT. I just don’t know . . . what to do. I mean, is it just like . . .” he trailed off. Starr was looking at him with an expression of such love and amusement that Nick felt better. 

She patted the mattress up next to her and he scrambled to lie down again, burying his face along her shoulder. She kissed his head, and spoke softly; urgently as their bodies pressed hungrily against each other.

“It’s just like. The only difference is needing a little lube, Nick. And I hope to heaven you have some . . . right?”

Nick rolled away from her and fumbled in the nightstand for a moment, pulling things out: a bottle of aspirin; a travel pack of tissues, some paper clips and finally palmed a small bottle. He shifted back and handed it to Starr, his face a little red, but his expression soft and hungry at the same time. She took the bottle and flipped the cap open, gently squeezing a dab of the contents across her fingers.

“Yes, good,” came Starr’s murmur as she reached down between her thighs. The sight fascinated Nick; the sensual tease of her preparation as she touched herself made him throb fiercely, and he untied his pajama bottoms while watching her, feeling his mouth dry out. Starr stroked herself, then reached over and touched Nick’s stomach, rubbing her hand along his hip. “Nick—”

He knew. This part of it, Nick understood and a glorious sense of rightness washed through his lust, giving him a sense of sweet inevitability. Carefully he pulled Starr to him, and kissed her, letting Starr’s tongue slide into his waiting mouth. She kissed him deeply, sliding one leg over his hip, and Nick rocked against her, and their kissing grew deeper and stronger. Starr ground against him, reaching down to caress his shaft with her still-slick fingers.

He thrust himself into her grip, the flare of urgent desire growing now, want quickly becoming need as he did so. Starr moaned as Nick pulled up her shirt and kissed her chest, suckling hard on each nipple.

“Gawwd, Nick,” she groaned. He rolled with her, pinning her gently as he kept his weight on his elbows and knees, tasting the warm sweet flesh down her sternum and along her ribs. Starr laughed in frustration, wriggling a little under him. “Please, please?”

“Shhhh—” he murmured, settling between her long thighs, looking down as she reached for his throbbing prick, guiding him gently. Nick rocked forward, and in one smooth sure stroke pushed into her. Starr shivered and gave a low cry of delight even as she wrapped her graceful legs around his waist. Nick shuddered himself, blind to everything except the hot slick welcome of her body to his. So exquisitely tight, smooth as silk and scaldingly right. He pulled back and thrust again, stroking deep, giving in to the primal urge of his hips. 

Nick planted his hands on either side of Starr’s shoulders, rocking strongly. The sight of her groaning in pleasure under him, dark eyes locked with his, her uncovered breasts shaking with each hard thrust burned into him, and Nick bent to kiss her, letting his stomach tense and flex against hers as the soft slick sounds of their passion grew.

He loved the feel of her damp legs wrapped around him, of her hands raking his back, the sound of her voice urging him to go harder, deeper oh yeah, good, good—all of it. And when Starr writhed, panting, eyes squeezed shut as her entire lanky body thrummed in tight spasms around his, Nick lost whatever fragment of control he had left. The urgently molten thrill of his orgasm rocketed through his balls, and he thrust harder, dropping onto Starr’s frame as he came in long, deep plunges.

They lay tangled together, sweaty and softly chuckling, entwined and breathlessly happy. Nick felt Starr’s pulse slowing down from its gallop back to a calm steady beat under his lips. He kissed her neck and collarbones while she stroked his hair.

“Damn I love you,” he sighed. “And not just for this—Even though this is really, really good.”

“Shhhh,” she sighed back, blowing her damp bangs up off her forehead and grinning hugely. “You’re so damned cute when you’re sated, Butch. I bet you’re going to be snoring in about three minutes.”

Nick tried not to grin, but he felt too good to resist, and gently slid free of Starr. He carefully mopped both of them up with his pajama bottoms, as she made faces.

“That’s just lazy, Nick Stokes.”

“It’s practical. I’ll lay out a towel next time,” he sighed and kissed her before rolling over and dropping the pajama bottoms off the side of the bed.

“Oh you think there’s going to be a next time?” Starr commented innocently. In reply, Nick laughed low and pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.

“I don’t think it, I KNOW it.”

*** *** ***

The buzz of Nick’s doorbell woke them both; groggily Nick checked his watch while Starr rolled over and burrowed deeper into the covers. He got up and snagged jeans from the chair, hollering towards the living room as he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to step into them.

“Hang on!” Over his shoulder to Starr he grunted, “Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

“’k,” Starr murmured, smothering a giggle at his pants dance. Nick shot her a smutty look and turned to the door, peering through the spy hole. He opened it a crack and looked out.

“Cath—what’s up?”

“Early call—major shoot-out at the Atlantis, so everyone’s on it. You didn’t answer your phone, and since you were on my way . . .” Catherine’s gaze wandered over Nick’s shoulder into the apartment, zeroing on the open bedroom door and the clear view of Starr’s form under the covers. She arched an eyebrow at Nick, who looked back, then blushed. “Wellll, I see why you weren’t answering.”

Nick shot Catherine a warning look and closed the door a little more, cutting off her view. “Hey Catherine, I DO have a life beyond the lab, okay? Just give me a minute and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Fine, fine,” Catherine laughed and turned to lean against the wall next to the door as she checked her watch again.

Nick scrambled, grabbing a clean shirt, pulling a pair of socks out of a drawer and collecting his shoes from beside the bed. He sat on the mattress as he pulled his socks on, his words slightly rushed. “Sorry Starr, gotta go in early. Listen, why don’t you stay and relax until you have to go to work yourself. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, and here . . .”

He pulled a key off his thick ring, dropping it into her palm and rolling her fingers up around it. “Yours, okay?”

Starr sat up, forgetting to clutch the covers to her chest. Nick grinned both at her surprise and absentmindedness. She squeezed the key a little. “Nick—!”

“Hey,” he leaned over to kiss her, laughing against her mouth, “You’re my girl.” Impishly he reached out a hand to caress one exposed breast; Starr squealed and kissed him back, then lightly peeled his fingers off her chest. He gave a mock pout.

“You have work to do, Butch!”

“Don’t remind me—So give me one for the road,” And Nick pulled her to him; Starr cupped his face and kissed him thoroughly, and giggled as he gave her a dazed little smile.

*** *** ***

“Soooo, what’s her naaame?” Catherine singsonged teasingly as Nick fastened his seatbelt. He grinned, a quick boyish smile.

“Her name is Starr.”

“Starr,” Catherine repeated gently as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “Showgirl?”

“Artist. And bartender.”

“Interesting combination. How’d you meet?”

“In a bar.” Nick’s grin widened. “Is this Twenty Questions?”

“Yep, and I have seventeen more,” Catherine assured him with a smile of her own. Nick sighed.

“Aw come on, Cath—can’t a guy have any privacy around here?”

“Let me think about that . . . um, no. You have a woman not just at your place, but in your BED, Nick. That warrants a little curiosity.” She countered, and although her tone was light, there was a bit of seriousness to it as well. Nick turned to look at Catherine. She sighed. “Nick . . . I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” he replied, stunned at how true the words were.

 

The case was big, but not too complicated; a group of thieves had broken into the vault room of the Atlantis and had almost made off with a cage transfer—almost. Three of them were dead, and the other two were wounded. Nick collected shell casings and dusted the transfer cage and various surfaces, Warrick working in tandem with him. 

“Yo, Nick,” came the amused call. He looked up into Warrick’s wry smile. “You’re whistling, man.”

“Sorry. Just feeling good.”

“Yeah?” Interested now, Warrick narrowed his stare; Nick felt his grin broaden in response.

“Yeah. And before you hear it from Catherine, I have a girlfriend, all right?”

“Nice,” Warrick grinned back, genuinely pleased. “Anyone I know?”

“Starr—she’s the bartender over at Mina’s.”

“Ohhh yeah. The other Longhorn, gotcha.” Warrick frowned a minute as he concentrated, his memory in full recall mode. “Tall one, right? Brunette?”

“That’s the one,” Nick agreed, signing and dating the three print cards in front of him. Warrick bagged another shell casing in silence, then spoke up.

“So she’s special, huh?”

Nick sighed. “More than you know, man.”

They finished up and brought the evidence in, signing it off and filing the paperwork in timely fashion. Almost everyone was fairly cheerful about the outcome; it looked to be cut and dry, with motive and suspects well in hand. Nick tried to concentrate as he worked with Bobby to make matches to the casings recovered, but he kept checking his watch, especially as the end of the shift loomed near.

“Anxious to go home, are ya?” Bobby teased, looking at Nick through protective eyewear. Nick grinned in reply, wondering how much of his mood showed on his face. When the last compare had been fired, he peeled off his goggles and made it in and out of the locker room in record time.

Nick pulled up to his apartment and gripped the wheel of his truck, trying not give in to the urge to drive to Starr’s instead of home. He sighed, and parked, reluctantly heading for the door, wondering when he could call Starr and if she’d left something he could bring over, as a nice excuse just to see her again . . . as he jammed his spare key in the lock he laughed out loud.

“Got it bad, Stokes. Calm down and give the woman room to breathe—“ he chided himself. He pushed open the door.

He blinked.

Floating in the middle of the living room was a silver mylar balloon. It was plain silver, but Nick recognized the handwriting on it . . . he stepped in and he snagged the string, he pulling it closer. 

Nick:

I love you too.

And under that, a fancy drawing of a five pointed star.

Tied on the bottom of the ribbon, anchoring the balloon was a housekey, and as Nick picked it up, he felt a wave of tenderness through his chest, emotion so strong it left him giddy. His face hurt from grinning, and he touched the little key gently. 

End


End file.
